The car vibrates like a passive massage

Clanking sounds and increased shaking

Calmly the driver does assuage

Our fears of it stopping or breaking

The Prophet of the Backseat doth protest

"Nay," says he, "I do foresee

An explosion of some dangerous degree

Then shall one of those winsome trucks

Bearing cargo and other heavy stuff

Run thee over like a roadkill crepe,

And then we shall mourn our late driver pancake.

Do trust me, truly, I would know,

In just a few seconds, I'll have told you so."

"And from what god does your foresight flow?"

"Naturally, from watching Game of Thrones!"

"Ah yes, indeed, what an educational show."

The shaking in the seats is still not gone

The quaking engine is still going on

The driver, he capitulates to our pleas

And considers stopping off at the next station

But maybe the engine will find its own way to peace

Why should we worry about some minor vibration?

Surely there is no need for such frustration

This car was built from the steel of the ancients

'Twas once a chariot, the pride of its nation

The marks on the windshield are scars of war

Its frictionless wheels are eternally greased

"Eighteen years," he repeats, "it will last eighteen more…"

Just then, his right wheel goes out with a bang

And the engine, it dies with a drawn out clang

The driver, surprised, decides to find out

What the fuss is about - we yell, "LOOK OUT!"

He is thus nearly crushed

In another truck's rush

(Next time he will use the other door to get out

That is not on the same side as the auto route).

The prophet he smirks, see his prediction prior.

"Well that is unfortunate," the man does declare.

"But sadly words that describe that tire

Also apply to my right spare."

How many Knowledge Bowl kids does it take

To change a tire or turn on the brakes?

We venture to the underworld (well, actually a Goodyear location)

Where the lord of death explains our tire's deflation

And the prophet enjoys a conversation

With a veteran about past wars (he has a fixation)

And an honors student makes an observation.

"These wheels smell like spaghetti."

What a strange olfactory sensation.

And so, when we gather together, all ready,

By manner of cellphone, our muse is evoked.

She promises us all a ride back home

Having eaten our fill of popcorn to go,

The three of us we stand in a single file queue

The ferryman picks up the Knowledge Trio

And we bid the hapless driver adieu.

(Until his car is repaired, he cannot come along

Hopefully the mechanics won't take too long

But he himself is fond of rhymes...

Maybe he can recite poetry to pass the time?)